In Friuli, my village,
girls grow up quickly. I was seventeen years old, and when I compared myself to my city peers—who only came to visit on Sundays—everyone else looked pale and small, while I seemed like a giant.

I knew I was a beautiful girl. The compliments from young men whenever I passed the church square—those glances that seemed to pierce my clothes, searching my deepest secrets—made me feel a thrill of pleasure. Especially when it was Oreste, a broad, tall boy with a wild mop of hair that gave him a carefree expression.

I had a crush on him. Occasionally, in my school notebook, I’d write "Oreste and Lia" with hearts and flowers, then erase everything. The thought that someone else might read those words made my cheeks burn with shame.

The best time of the year was summer—when there were no homework or school, and I could wander freely through the fields, lie on the grass, and bathe in the river.

On my eighteenth birthday, something happened. After the party at home (and yes, I’d had a little too much to drink), I went alone to the riverbank, where the current bent into a curve and the bushes hid any prying eyes. I stripped completely, threw myself into the water to cool off, then—unexpectedly—only put on my light, thin dress and ran through the meadows. I felt free, as if I were preparing for something greater.

Tired, I collapsed on a wheat stalk. The sun was high, and a warm joy filled my body. I dozed off.

When I woke, my heart raced. Before me stood Oreste, his hair whipping in the wind. My dress had ridden up, exposing everything. I didn’t care. I didn’t close my legs. With half-open eyes, I let him watch me.

He broke the silence:
— "I heard it was your birthday, Lia."

— "Did you come to wish me well?"
"Yes, and to drink a little with you."

He knelt, pulling a bottle of grappa—the national drink of our region, the companion of every celebration—from the grass. We drank straight from the bottle. Then he kissed me, and passed the grappa between our lips. It tasted stronger, richer.

His hands began to trace my legs, then climb higher. His touch grew bold, and a finger pressed urgently against my clitoris—something I’d only explored in my lonely nights. Now it felt even better. My head spun with heat. Maybe it was his touch. Maybe it was the grappa, which I wasn’t used to.

Suddenly, I cried out:
— "Yes, Oreste, please! Don’t make me suffer anymore!"

He stripped quickly and lay beside me. I wrapped my hands in his hair, lifting my hips to guide him inside—just as I’d dreamed of in my dreams.

It was real. Everything was real. I wept and laughed at once, overwhelmed by the joy. He entered me first gently, then with force, breaking through my untouched virginity. I pushed back, impatient to feel him fully, before the afternoon’s magic faded.

A cry, and he was inside me, moving urgently, panting with pleasure. I tried to match his rhythm, to keep the moment perfect.

The climax hit like a flame, a sharp sting that made me tremble. It lasted all afternoon, into the evening—a relentless, feverish love, like a storm.

By nightfall, I returned home, ignoring my parents’ scoldings for my long absence.